


but she's looking at you

by Lizzen



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: Angst, Consent Issues, F/F, Possession, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 23:52:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8180566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzen/pseuds/Lizzen
Summary: “I’m having a really good day,” Erin says with promise and it's weird but okay. Jillian feels light inside, like sunshine is bursting through her heart and making her bright and hot. She doesn't have to wonder why: Erin's hand is on hers. Casually. Like they do this. “Tell me about your new prototype,” Erin says and Jillian opens her mouth.





	

**Author's Note:**

> -love for my girls, a&a&m&c  
> -huge thanks to my beta, somethingaboutsewing, who is a big damn hero <3___<3  
> -deeply in love with raygorartshit’s art for the fic, which you can find in the link at the end notes (it's spoilery!!)  
> -and this was the hardest fic I’ve ever written, wow. whee!

When it’s Halloween, when it’s too late, they all hear the clatter of a wrench falling and hitting the concrete floor, rattling up and down before becoming silent.  
   
*  
“So, I'm working on a new prototype,” Jillian says. “A sweet reverse to the polarity on the forward reactor and we have all the equilibrium we need."  
   
"You're going to blow us up, Holtz."  
   
"I might blow us all up."  
   
“Well,” Patty says, raising her drink. “It's Halloween in a week, and after what I’ve been reading up on, we might need it.”  
   
Jillian raises her glass because that’s what you do.  
   
And she smiles because she's happy and because Erin is sitting next to her and is also smiling. “You’re laughing a lot today,” she tells Erin because it’s a fact and it’s a lovely thing.  
   
“Am I?” Erin says, and for a moment, she runs her tongue along her lip as if in thought. Then, her smile reaches her eyes. It’s joy, infectious and sweet, and Jillian mirrors the expression completely. If Erin was any other girl, Jillian would know there was the easy probability of getting laid. A simple fact of mathematics.  
   
But that's not what she does with Erin. Once it was possible, when Abby hated her and so screwing a beautiful messed up girl was totally on the table. But now Abby loves her again, like sisters, and Jillian should feel the same way too. Like sisters. Who don't kiss at bars in front of their friends.  
   
“I’m just having a really good day,” Erin says with promise and it's weird but okay. Jillian feels light inside, like sunshine is bursting through her heart and making her bright and hot. She doesn't have to wonder why: Erin's hand is on hers. Casually. Like they do this.  
   
“Tell me about your new prototype,” Erin says and Jillian opens her mouth.  
   
*  
It’s the wee hours of the morning and Jillian’s tinkering, as she usually does, and there are a handful of texts on her phone.  
   
Abby: **Erin has the best ideas**  
Abby: **We’re going to Princeton**  
Abby: **For research about Zuul**  
Abby: **And something called Gozer**  
Abby: **Back in a few days I think**  
   
She replies: **Erin too?**  
   
Abby: **Me and Patty**  
Abby: **Don’t blow up the lab**  
Abby: **Love you**  
   
She replies with a handful of emojis before turning to wink at her prototype. “It’s you and me, baby.” And it hums like it always does, deep and low.  
   
*  
Progress is slow but satisfying, and Jillian’s skipping meals and ignoring both incoming texts and Kevin milling about downstairs. It’s the most complex device she’s ever constructed and it’s going to change the game and she can’t wait to see everyone’s faces when they see how it works. What it can do.  
   
“Hello, Jillian,” Erin says, and Jillian jumps, having missed the part when she must have arrived.  
  
Erin’s smile is easy. “Your hands are shaking.” There’s a coffee and a sandwich in her hands.  
   
“God, I love you,” Jillian says. “Put it over there.”  
   
“Nope, gonna watch you eat it.”                           
   
Jillian raises her eyebrows but lowers her wrench.  
   
It ends up being the best sandwich she’s ever had; all kinds of salty deliciousness with avocado. Erin sits with her as Jillian talks in between bites, her head slightly tilted as she listens.  
   
There’s something nice, something very nice to have someone who listens, really listens. It’s nice.  
   
Erin finally says: “You’re not getting any sleep, I see.”  
   
Jillian hesitates. Dr. Gorin used to say that a lot. “Well—”  
   
Erin shakes her head. “So, I’m going to take you to bed.”  
   
Opening her mouth, Jillian has about seven and a half responses to that statement but lands on: “Uh.”  
   
There’s something like the flicker of pride in Erin’s expression. “To sleep.” She reaches out and takes Jillian’s hand like it’s a precious object. Turning it, she runs her finger down Jillian’s palm.  “You’re important, Jillian. Need you to keep up your strength.” And she winks.  
   
Every inch of her is awake right now, no part of her even the slightest bit tired, and Jillian says: “I like sleep.”  
   
Erin’s gaze lingers long, long enough to notice it’s long. And then she smiles. “Get out of here. I’ll clean up.”  
   
*  
Jillian’s waking up from the sleep of the dead and Erin’s at her bedroom door with Starbucks. “Breakfast and an extra set of hands?”  
   
“We should get gay married,” Jillian mutters, unsteadily sitting up but reaching for coffee.  
   
“A June wedding.”  
   
“Fuck that, I was thinking tomorrow.”  
   
When Erin laughs, Jillian laughs too.  
   
They work on the coils in the morning and the reactor in the afternoon and it’s so much easier, so much better having help. Abby usually did this sort of thing, and Erin’s a little clumsy but it’s nice. It’s a nice change.  
   
And Erin’s just so. She’s so—  
   
Jillian refuses to think about it. Safer that way.  
   
*  
In the middle of the late afternoon, her phone beeps.  
   
Abby: **Patty’s in research heaven**  
Abby: **I’m in soup heaven right now**  
Abby: **How’s Erin, she hasn’t texted me back**  
Abby: **You guys doing okay?**  
   
Jillian types back: **Erin’s great, she’s helping**  
   
Abby: **good**  
Abby: **miss you**  
Abby: **we’ll be back Sunday**  
Abby: **tell Erin to text me**  
   
*  
She orders take out and Erin pulls out a bottle of chardonnay and they eat like kings. It’s quiet, Kevin’s gone for the day. Erin usually leaves for home around 8 p.m., usually, but it’s 8:30 and she’s filling Jillian’s glass up to the brim and looking settled.  
   
Jillian doesn’t usually drink wine, it muddles everything and makes her feel too loose for comfort, but here she is, drinking down her second glass. She hopes she’s not slurring as she speaks; and she speaks a lot. Erin’s full of questions tonight.  
   
Questions about the Time Before Abby, about Dr. Gorin, about the packs. About where she thinks they’re all going with this ghostbusters thing. About her next, next, next ideas.  
   
It may be that Jillian’s never strung so many words together about herself in one evening, but Erin’s eyes are so pretty and the wine is so nice. Everything is pleasant and warm. Like a dream.  
   
“Tell me how you feel when you destroy a ghost, Jillian,” Erin says. She’s sitting close, and Jillian didn’t quite notice how close until Erin leans in a little.  “I’m curious.”  
   
Jillian has a lot of thoughts about how it feels to incinerate, to vanquish, to burn; and a lot of feelings about those thoughts. It is, after all, her job to think up new ways, new methods, new devices of destruction.  
   
She’s a little flushed, from the wine, from the closeness, from the question. There’s a lot she wants to say. Lots of ways to answer. And Erin is staring at her, breathing in short shallow breaths. There’s a hunger in her eyes.  
   
Jillian opens her mouth and she says: “It feels good.”  
   
Erin’s mouth rises into a small smile. “It feels good,” she echoes.  
   
Jillian runs her tongue along her lower lip. “Yeah.”  
   
“So.” Erin takes Jillian’s hands in hers, squeezes her fingers. “What would you think if I kissed you right now?”  
   
Simple mathematics become calculus, but fuck that, ignore that, a pretty girl is inches away and Jillian doesn’t wait. Jillian doesn’t think it through. Jillian just acts. There’s no other option.  
   
*  
It’s 7:32 a.m. and Jillian is tinkering absent mindedly because her head is not in the game. She’s thinking about the intricate things fingers can do. There’s the heady buzz of energy in her blood, but she’s sore, sore everywhere, and–  
   
_— Erin keeps her legs apart and eats her out slowly and carefully; she takes her sweet, sweet time and it's excruciating. Jillian usually likes it quick and sharp, but she’s up for anything now that Erin’s in play. This is probably just a one-time thing, Jillian considers, and that’s okay, that’s just fine. It’s all fine. She makes a low sort of sigh as she comes with Erin’s tongue inside of her, fingers pressed and hands splayed out, and oh god —_  
   
_—_ So, she goes through the motions on what is basically a dumpster dive for parts and comes back with an odd collection of PVC pipe she could easily get at Lowes.  
   
So, she goes through the motions and almost breaks one of the packs in her daily maintenance.  
   
So, she goes through the motions and adds paint to her prototype for flair not function.  
   
So, she—  
   
_— It happens again, Erin leaning up against her door with her arms crossed over her chest and her chin jutted out. “Hi,” is all she has to say before Jillian has her against the wall, her fingers wandering fast and furious and making purchase; making an unceasing pressure in a steady rhythm. Erin keens and Jillian wants to hear that sound again, again, and so she does it more, keeps up the work even though she’s tired and—_  
   
—Jillian’s in bed, sated, exhausted, a little delirious, when the first text comes through.  
   
Abby: **Erin seem weird to you?**  
   
Erin’s wrapped around her, legs and arms tight, and she’s breathing slow like she’s asleep. Jillian’s fingers move quickly.  
   
**No** , she types, **Not at all. She seem weird to you?**  
   
Abby: **A little weird**  
Abby: **You’re a little weird too**  
   
Her heart is a little drum as she types out, **That’s why you love me**  
   
Abby: **Damn right** —  
   
_—It happens again, Erin running her finger around Jillian’s wrist before grasping it and later, many moments later, Jillian's on all fours with Erin behind her, fucking her deep and hard with three fingers and the other hand tweaking one nipple and Jillian sees stars when she comes and she feels like a champagne bottle right after it pops, effervescent and full of promise, and—_  
   
*  
It’s late Sunday morning and Jillian staggers out of her bedroom in the fire station and touches her prototype. It’s hot, where it shouldn’t be; it’s cold, where it shouldn’t be. There's a high pitched hum.  
   
“Help,” she whispers before finding Erin, all snores and splayed out limbs, sleeping sound, and Jillian shakes her with two trembling hands. “I need you.”  
   
Erin rolls over in her sleep and whines out, “five more minutes”, which is five more minutes than Jillian has.  
   
She stands up straight before rushing back.  
   
How it ends: the prototype doesn’t blow up, doesn’t disintegrate the city block, doesn’t electrocute Jillian as she cradles it; but it shorts out with a whimper, not a bang.  
   
“Huh,” she says, thinking through her calculations and implementation plan, her use of aluminum and steel, her electrical wiring, her overall process. Nothing, nothing at all seems out of place in her memory, but maybe—maybe—  
   
Doubt seeps into her bones and she regrets, oh she regrets.  
   
“I’m going to spend the rest of the day in the lab, Erin,” she says over her shoulder, hoping Erin hears it. Something like irritation creeps into her heart, but Jillian is so used to disappointments, this is nothing.  
   
By lunchtime, Erin’s close again. “How long will it take you to fix it?” she asks.  
   
“Maybe forty-eight hours. I’m not sure.” And everything in her body aches.  
   
Erin leans back on her heels. “Can I do anything?”  
   
“Nah,” Jillian says.  
   
*  
Erin disappears after that.  
   
*  
“It smells like something died in here,” Patty says but then she smiles like sunshine. Jillian feels something like relief crest inside of her, just to know they’re home.  
   
“I’m bringing it back to life.”  
   
“That doesn’t inspire comfort in me, Holtzmann.”  
   
Abby gets in her space for a hug. “I missed my Jilly cuddles,” she says. “Sorry about the prototype. I can help?”  
   
“You can help,” Jillian replies.  
   
Patty looks around. “Where’s Erin?”  
   
Jillian looks up quickly, too quickly. Abby’s eyes narrow just enough to notice. Then Jillian shrugs and looks back at the prototype, wondering what an all-nighter will feel like when she’s this tired.  
   
Her bed will be cold twice over.  
   
*  
“Glad the band’s back together,” Erin merrily says the next morning, Halloween morning, and Abby nudges her with her shoulder, like sisters do. They’re pouring over Patty’s notes on Gozer and her associates. Erin’s slashing through a lot of things with her pen and humming appreciatively.  
   
Jillian’s heart rate is slow, sluggish from not enough sleep and a lack of hope.  Nothing adds up and something is just a few degrees off.  
   
“Holtzy,” Patty says, sidling up to her. “You okay?”  
   
There’s a yes on her lips before: “No.” It’s a whisper, slight. Her gaze focuses on Erin.  
   
Erin tilts her head to the side, as if she’s listening to the room itself. Then she smiles because Erin is always smiling now and it’s wrong, it’s just wrong, everything’s wrong. But when Abby’s glance in her direction turns into a lingering gaze, Jillian forces a sunny expression.  
   
Abby says, without looking away: “Speaking of bands, Erin, you remember when we pranked that trombone player?”  
   
A laugh in her mouth, Erin replies, “Jonathan. Locker 4330. I remember.”  
   
And with that, Abby turns, casually, very casually, to look at Erin. “You usually say a few harsh words when you mention him.”  
   
“Do I?” Erin says, without hesitation. “Mmm, must be mellowing with age.”  
   
Jillian stands up a little straighter. Reaches out to grab Patty’s hand.  
   
“Something’s up with you,” Abby says, definitively, and Jillian can feel Patty flinch. “And something’s up with Jillian.”  
   
All eyes are on her now and something’s odd, something’s weird with Erin’s eyes. There’s something almost crimson in the color,—and —and —a blue and purple light suddenly shimmers in the angles and curves of Erin’s body.  
   
There’s the clatter of a wrench hitting the concrete floor, rattling up and down before becoming silent. Jillian stands over it, ignoring the fallen tool with her hand suddenly empty and her heart in her mouth.  
   
Erin, well, it’s _not Erin_. It raises a hand to her forehead in a salute and her expression is definitely not anything Erin would make.  
   
“I was tired of this charade anyway,” it says, a voice otherworldly but distinctly female.  “Hello, _ghostbusters_.”  
   
A kaleidoscope of ethereal colors sparkle in the periphery of Erin, and a shape appears to withdraw, woman-shaped, and it’s bright, so bright, and laughing.  
   
She's finely dressed, something silky-looking to begin with before the wraithlike edges start, smoothing everything out into ghostly wisps. Her face, angular, and her eyes red. Jillian breathes in slowly, starting strong at her feet and losing strength somewhere in her belly.  
   
If Jillian is being honest, she is relieved it’s a woman, not a man or a dragon or something worse. It doesn’t help, it doesn’t heal; but it’s better that it’s a woman.  
   
Abby’s quick, her arms reaching Erin before she crumples to the floor. But Patty’s still as a statue and her hands are in little fists. She clears her throat.  “Zuul.”  
   
It’s a sharp peal of laughter that erupts out of the spectral shape. “Thank you for the research, Patricia. Very helpful.”  
   
Jillian is cold, cold all over. “Was I helpful too?”  
   
Zuul turns her head. “Couldn’t have done it without you. I just wish Erin could remember how delicious you were.”  
   
Abby hisses something but all Jillian can hear is a static roar in her ears. Her hands move, searching wildly for the ghost grenade she hides under the table but she can’t find it, it’s gone.  
   
It’s an easy beautiful smile on phantom lips. “Tell me again, Jillian, how it feels when you destroy a ghost.”  
   
Jillian swallows.  
   
“It feels good, right?” Zuul laughs. “Well, I’m feeling _really good_ right now.”  
   
“I’m going to send you to hell,” Jillian whispers and she means it with every aching fiber of her being.  
   
“Not today. Not tomorrow. Not the next day,” she says. “But I’ll be seeing you,” and she wafts away like a breeze through the open window.  
   
They stand in silence, the cacophonous noise of the city streets filling the room.  
   
And then, from nestled in Abby’s arms, she can hear Erin saying in a quiet voice: “What—what happened?”  
   
There’s things to do, things to say, but something else emerges in the forefront of Jillian’s thoughts: the packs.  
   
*  
Their packs don’t work, and Jillian’s prototype is many hours away, and some sort of super ghost may or may not destroy Manhattan or all of reality. Despite pages and pages of notes, Patty’s not 100% certain.  
   
Erin is the only one of them with steady hands; she has no memory of what happened and she has the energy of someone who’s been asleep for days. Jillian guesses that she has to feel, feel some kind of sore. Zuul wasn’t – they weren’t gentle Saturday night.  
   
But they can deal with that later. It’s on them to save the world first.  
   
Still, she dry heaves into the trash can before she can do anything else.  
  
*  
There’s circuit work to be done, and that takes a focused concentration that Jillian really doesn’t have. She hums, she plays music, she jitterbugs a little, she groans out desperately. She slaps her face lightly and drinks coffee. Stares and stares, and gets to work.  
   
An hour in, cool fingers run along the back of her neck. She leans into the touch a little, a small comfort.  
   
“Hey there,” Erin says and Jillian nearly comes out of her skin. Standing straight, standing away, she finds small ways to hold herself together, and her focus sharpens like a knife.  
   
“Hi,” she says. “Sorry. Hi.”  
   
Erin bites her lip. “Hi.”  
   
There’s a hundred things Jillian could say. What she says is: “So, uh, I’m a little nervous.”  
   
Something vulnerable peeks out in Erin’s expression to be quickly covered up by resolve. “We’ve got this.”  
   
Jillian reaches out, intending to grip Erin’s hand but she thinks the better of it. She nods instead, lifting her head up and down, slow, slowly, eyes searching Erin’s face.  
   
“Come on, Holtzmann, we need your A game,” and Erin’s smile begins, and grows; it’s a sweet smile, the smile you give a friend, the kind of smile she always makes. A smile Jillian hasn’t seen on her lips for a week.  
   
She thinks: I was such a fool, such a fool  
   
She says: “How are you so brave right now?”  
   
Erin’s smile vanishes. “There’s no other option.”  
  
*  
Halloween goes by all quiet-like; too quiet. The only ghosts are those wearing sheets. Kevin’s phone is silent, and there’s no buzz in the news, no horrible thing happening. Patty sighs out her frustration, though, and returns to the literature. Returns to the notes Zuul slashed up with a pen that morning, looking for any shred of information. “There has to be a portal, and it has to be somewhere close,” she says to her laptop screen, almost as if she expects it to answer her.  
   
Every extra second Jillian has to get them back in the game is precious, so she has no complaints about a peaceful Monday night.  
   
When it’s midnight, Abby pushes a container of hot soup in front of her as well as a plastic spoon. Her face is determined so Jillian takes it and immediately begins to sip and eat.  
   
Abby watches her, and her face is slightly pale. “So. Things got a little…between…?”  
   
Jillian doesn’t look up. “More than a little.”  
   
There’s no hesitation when Abby says. “Not your fault.”  
   
Jillian doesn’t answer, mostly because she’s so tired, bone tired. And because shoving wontons in your face is far superior to talking about It.  
   
“Erin will know it wasn’t your fault.”  
   
Something brittle inside of her tenses, threatens to break, but then, there’s a flutter of post it notes from the corner, and Patty’s standing on her chair yelling:  “Girls, girls, girls, I’m a goddamn genius. I’ve got it.”  
  
*  
Hodgepodge weapons are prepped and armed for battle, and Patty’s research takes them to the roof of 55 Central Park West. The plan is simple, and all they need is for Jillian to do her job, keep her head.  
   
There’s something like an altar, and Zuul is floating primly on it. Something that looks like a hellhound is at her side, panting heavily.  
   
She flutters ghostly fingers in their direction. “You’re late, girls.”  
   
Abby doesn’t hesitate; the damaged proton stream gleams as she fires. Zuul seems to fizzle, like a short circuit, before reforming, unblemished.  
   
“Cute,” she says.  
   
Each of them stands a little straighter, hold their weapons tighter.  
   
“Glad you’re all here, glad you’ll get to see Her reborn,” Zuul says. “I need a vessel to open the portal, as does my mate.” She pets the hellhound gently with her barely corporeal hand. “And you brought me four to choose from. Delightful. Shall we do rock paper scissors?”  
  
The body betrays; Jillian almost stumbles, her legs are so weak. Every feeling she has, so many, too many to count, is muted by fear and disgust.  
   
She wonders what it’s like for Erin, watching this, considering Zuul’s words. She looks and sees Erin’s face, fierce and unafraid, and that’s, that’s when she finds her strength, in the rising tide of pure rage.  
   
One foot in front of the other, she thinks, and edges her way towards the ghost.  
   
Zuul rolls her head to the side and appraises Jillian with a cold stare. “Don't cross me, lover,” she says. “I wouldn't want to lose you.”  
   
“I'm not yours to lose,” Jillian replies, venom in her mouth.  
   
The ghost slinks close and she can smell the sharpness of ionization, sour in her nose. “Your body was mine. It can be mine again.”  
   
She resolutely doesn’t look away, keeps her gaze fixed on the ghost. Something like steel reinforces her knees, keeps her stance straight. “Come and get it, then.”  
   
Zuul moves in; her face ethereal and horrible. “I’ve won. Accept the inevitability and despair.”  
   
“You’d like that.” She steps closer, defiance radiating.  
   
“Poor lonely Jillian, thinks she’s a hero. Thinks she can find redemption at the end of a gun that barely works. You’re a failure. You’ve shown yourself to be weak.” She laughs, a sharp piercing sound. “And, oh, how you’ll never kiss those lips again. I bet she can’t even bear to look at you now. Not after what you’ve done.”  
   
Jillian ignores the shiver in her skin, takes another step.  
   
Zuul leans close. “How’s this. What if I possess you? What if I crawl inside the big smart brain of yours and play? Then I promise that you can have her again.” Her eyes lower slowly before rising. “And again. Forever.”  
   
“I—”  
   
She shushes her with a slow hiss and the rise of her hand. “We both know how much you want her, how it feels to be next to her. I’ve watched you a long time, long before. I know your desire runs like black river through your veins. This could be fun, Jillian. We could have a lot of fun.”  
   
“You’re right,” Jillian says, and looks down as if shy, and sees boots directly behind Zuul’s phantom shape. Something like peace rises in her chest, a feeling she hasn’t had in days. And she allows herself a smile that starts small before growing cruel. “I think I’m a hero.”  
   
And Jillian says: “Light it up, Patty.”  
   
Something smells like fire and death. “Here’s the thing, bitch,” Patty says, “You screwed the wrong ghostbuster.” She’s wielding an old proton pack and something like a flamethrower bound together with duct tape. “I know what can kill you.”  
   
Zuul begins to open her mouth, but Patty fires, close range, and it’s an orange and yellow burst of light and flame.  
   
Jillian drops to the floor and out of the way but watches every second. Science and the paranormal linked in two streams of light, a special cocktail she cooked up based on vague research, intuition, and a lot, a lot of anger.  
  
Zuul’s scream lingers in the air.  
   
The destruction of ghosts looks like light scattershot across the air. Jillian often finds it very pretty; the satisfaction of success enhanced with a light show. But Zuul disintegrates into ash and burning acid. Jillian is quick to move away from it, scrambling on the ground. Patty adjusts her target and the hellhound whines before joining Zuul in the scorched dust on cursed concrete. The smell is almost toxic.  
   
Breathing in slowly, Jillian stares and stares until she sees an outreached hand in front of her. She looks up, looks at Erin’s blank face. It takes her all her courage to reach out and clasp Erin’s hand.  
   
*  
She shelves the prototype and works immediately on guardrails so that this never happens again. Not to her friends, not to Kevin. Not here, not ever. There are necklaces to ward of possession, back up packs buried in the basement, secret reactors and grenades hidden all over, proton darts for purses and pockets, and a ghost scanner at the doors and windows.  
   
She doesn’t sleep much now. Sleep is difficult in a bed filled with memories.  
   
*  
“Hey, Holtz,” Erin says, and Jillian jumps, having missed the part when she must have arrived. The familiarity twists in her gut and her trigger fingers tremble.  
   
“What’s up, boo.” She avoids twisting her hands together nervously but she does quickly touch her hair, fiddle with a curl before being still.  
   
Erin looks flushed, a rising pink in her cheeks that in any other universe would look fetching. In this universe, in the here and now, it’s terrible. Jillian is afraid, and not much terrifies her, but—but— whatever Erin has to say won't be good.  
   
“I wanna talk about it.”  
   
And it’s like she’s on a flight with sudden, fierce turbulence. She could drop out of the sky in a moment. There’s a tingle in her fingers, a shake in her limbs. Jillian stares for a moment, and then: “Um.”  
   
“So, we—”  
   
“We fucked. A lot,” Jillian blurts out because sugar coatings are for babies.  
   
“Oh.”  
   
Jillian doesn’t think, she just speaks: “And it was nice. You were nice. I guess. She was nice. God, this is gross.”  
   
“It’s okay,” Erin starts.  
   
“There is Nothing Okay about it. It’s the opposite of okay. It happened. It felt real. I thought it was you the whole time, I believed it, I believed you’d—I thought— and now I just.” She stops for a moment before it comes out. “Erin, I can remember exactly the way you taste.”  
   
Erin flinches. “You're right. I just. I'm—”  
   
“I'm sorry,” they both say.  
   
Jillian would laugh in any other circumstance.  
   
Erin says. “What she did to you—”  
   
“What she did to you was worse.” Jillian shrugs miserably. “I had a choice.”  
   
Erin steps closer. “I know. I know you did. It’s o—” but Jillian shoots her a look before Erin can finish the word. Then, she’s moving again, in her personal space. “At least, at least it was you. I’m so glad that if it had to be someone, it was you.” Erin laughs and it’s not a happy sound. “I mean, it could have been Kevin, it could have been that horrible accountant who lives a few doors down from me. It could have been Abby. I’m glad it was you, Holtzmann.”  
   
She wants, oh, she wants to say “me too” but the words can’t come out. And something aches inside because she remembers, oh she remembers what it sounds like when Erin says “Jillian.”  
   
“We’re going to make it,” Erin says, firm and resolved.  
   
“We’re going to make it,” she echoes because there’s no other option.  
   
When Erin pushes in and presses her face between Jillian’s cheek and shoulder, when Erin hugs her, Jillian stands completely still and holds her breath. It’s too much to even breathe in the way Erin smells.  
  
But it lingers when Erin steps away and Jillian has to suck in a breath; overwhelmingly familiar.  
   
*  
Abby spends a lot of time with her; a touchstone of good memories. And listening to that motor mouth, Jillian finds herself grinning ear to ear, feels the tension drain out of her shoulders.  
   
And they keep very busy. With Patty’s ongoing research, they work together to make 55 Central Park West safe; destroy the portal before any horror could emerge.  
   
If Erin’s often absent, no one comments, no one asks.  
   
And every time Jillian misses her, she feels a devilish wash of shame surge through her, making her tingle in all the wrong places. So she tries not to think about it, think about her.  
   
But she still dreams.  
   
*  
She goes to visit Dr. Gorin’s lab in Vermont and loses herself in a project there. It’s a sabbatical of sorts, and it's just an hour flight back to Manhattan if something comes up.  
   
Dr. Gorin works her hard, long hours, and then sends her to bed with a problem to think through till the morning. It’s surprisingly similar to Zuul’s agenda: distract and exhaust, and repeat. Jillian leans into it, an embrace of her own weakness.  
   
The work itself is not ghost-related; something new, something normal. It’s surprisingly healing, and that missing sharpness in her mouth returns. She dances with abandon now, lost in the music and the math.  
   
Dr. Gorin always knows what Jillian needs.  
   
*  
Patty: **forgive yourself baby**  
Patty: **u know she has**  
   
*  
The other shoe drops when Jillian stumbles into the kitchen for breakfast to find Erin’s sitting with two cups of coffee.  
   
“Come here often?”  
   
Jillian stares, wide eyed, before finding some vague shred of composure. “What, yes. Hi. Erin.”  
   
“I've come to bring you home.” Erin’s smile reaches her eyes, and panic tastes bitter in Jillian’s mouth.  
   
“No, I’m good. I’m real good. I’m the goodest,” she lies.  
   
Erin taps the rim of her coffee cup a few times before tilting her head. “What if we took a walk?”  
   
So, there’s coats and scarves and socks and boots; it is fucking Vermont. And then there’s light snow and trees and Erin all bundled up next to her. Crisp November day under an arboreal canopy; if this were any other universe, or any other girl, it would be nice, really nice.  
   
“I wanted to talk,” Erin starts. “I wanted to tell you something.” Jillian wishes for nothing but the loud hum of machinery in her ears. “I ran the numbers, see, did a little calculation,” Erin says, with something like a laugh. “See, I realized that you thought you had something. Something wonderful.” Erin keeps walking, crunch, crunch in the snow and leaves. “And you lost it. She took me from you.”  
   
“It wasn't you.”  
   
“Doesn't matter.”  
   
“I should have known better.”  
   
“Doesn’t matter.”  
   
Jillian considers this, considers all the things she could say. “She took a lot of things from me.”  
   
Erin takes her hand, squeezes it hard.  
  
It stops Jillian in her tracks, but loosens her tongue. “I wasn’t under some spell, or being casual about it. I wanted you.” Jillian looks at their hands, fingers intertwined. “I wanted this.”  
   
A smile grows slow, slowly on Erin’s lips. “So, I was right.”  
   
She stares before: “She gave me something I wanted and took it away, in the worst way imaginable.”  
   
“Oh, Holtz.”  
   
Jillian gathers herself, stands a little straighter. “Don’t— I’ll be fine. Awesome, even. Just watch.” She attempts a smile, zany and familiar. Adjusts her glasses. Flips a few curls of her hair. Awesomely.  
   
Erin’s smile falters. “I—”  
   
“Honestly, I’m going to be—”  
   
Erin speaks quickly, too quickly. “What would you think if I kissed you right now? For real this time.”  
   
Cold water spills, it seems, along her spine and a longing takes root in her darkest places and Jillian sputters out “no.”  
   
Erin hovers in the periphery of her personal space; a quiet, subtle intrusion. “I want to.”  
   
If Erin was any other girl, Jillian would know—she would—  
  
If Erin was any other girl it would be a simple fact of mathematics.  
   
She thinks about Zuul’s truth: desire does run through her veins like a black river, in the furthest reaches of her heart, in the prickling sensation in her skin. She wants, oh she wants.  
   
It’s like a car swerving towards her and Jillian says, “if you want to, then—,” and she nods, lifting her head up and down, slight, slightly, and she braces for impact.  
   
Erin leans in and it’s soft, so soft, lips pressed against lips in such a sweet, innocent way. The soft sort of kiss that someone like Erin can give. Shy and gentle, and Jillian accepts it. This is madness, she knows what those lips can do; but she accepts it. Kisses back, a little.  
   
There’s a quiet sound that Erin makes and Jillian feels her knees go weak with want. This will end badly, she thinks, but she pushes in, feverish, and kisses Erin like she did before, like she learned how. Muscle memory mingling in this strange present. And she wills everything in her head to silence, she wills this to be a good decision.  
   
But.  
   
But, Erin makes a gasping noise and says something in the shape of “no” and Jillian’s pushed her away immediately, before she even fully registers what happened. They stare at each other, and Erin’s searching eyes are so unreadable.  
   
“Not—not like that,” Erin says finally and it’s, perhaps, the most damning words she’s said. Something freezes in Jillian and she can’t move. “Kiss me,” Erin says, and firmly, “like this—”  
   
Erin kisses her with a determined persistence, like she’s on a mission. There’s nothing beguiling about it, nothing slow and lazy with the hint of promise or the heat of passion in it. It’s methodical and sweet, thorough and pleasing. Like slipping into a warm bath; a comfort in the cold air.  
   
Jillian finds herself falling deeper, finds herself holding onto Erin as if she might slip away, finds herself aching all over.  
   
This is new, she thinks. And kisses back, eyes closed and heart open.  
   
*  
Dr. Gorin’s pouring out their cold coffee when they return all pink cheeks and bright eyes. “Dr. Gilbert,” she says with a touch of satisfaction. “You’re always welcome.”  
   
*  
Abby: **Erin says everything’s ok**  
Abby: **is everything okay**  
   
Jillian spins her phone around in her hands a few moments before typing: **yes**  
   
Abby: **then come home**  
Abby: **come home together**  
  
There’s a tightness in her chest that slow, slow, slowly subsides.    
  
*  
At Erin’s request, they take an uber from Newark to Erin’s condo, not the fire station. For all the marathon sex weeks ago, they never came here. Jillian wonders if Zuul ever did; she wonders a lot about what Zuul did before, or when Jillian was passed out asleep.  
   
Door closed and locked and suitcases down and Erin’s leaning against the wall, staring. She’s shy, breathtakingly so, and Jillian keeps her hands to herself, unsure. The insidious desire to run creeps along her skin but Erin asked her to be here, so she stands still.  
   
“Come here,” Erin says finally and Jillian takes a few steps closer, like she’s walking towards a frightened animal. Takes a few steps more when Erin gives her a look. When close enough, close enough to kiss, Erin seems to relax and her palms are pressed against the wall.  
   
“I want this,” Erin says. Consent freely given yet Jillian feels dirty all over; this is not her first time but it is Erin’s first, her first to remember.  
   
Jillian thinks: then I better make it good.  
  
There’s such innocence in Erin’s kisses, a quiet sort of loveliness. And Jillian will never be used to it, never get used to it. The only hope is if she kisses Erin enough, this Erin enough, memory will fade and be rewritten. An unlikely but comforting future.  
  
Erin cups her face before running a hand softly through Jillian’s curls. Jillian remembers her hair being tugged once, twice, by that hand and she almost panics. This is a terrible idea, Jillian thinks and believes, and kisses Erin back harder now, her hand gripping Erin’s waist tight, tightly.  
  
With the push of her hand, Erin directs Jillian towards the couch, but then veers into the bedroom instead. There is no mistaking her, no room for interpretation. Especially as she begins to fumble with Jillian’s buckle.  
  
“So,” she says, with a beautiful tinge of red in her cheeks, “I’ve never done this, um, with a woman. You’ll have to teach me.”  
  
There are flashes of positions, of touches and moves, of knees bent and the deep press of Erin’s tongue, and Jillian has to bite her lip. And to think, she was learning a thing or two from Erin weeks ago.  
  
But she has to say something, something in response and so: “Fair warning, there are flippers, and a blow up crocodile gets involved.”  
  
Laughing, Erin takes off her shirt and fusses with her skirt and Jillian just stands there, pants halfway off thanks to Erin’s removal of the belt and a little gravity. After a moment, she can’t help herself, moving in close and helping Erin with skirt buttons. And she leans her head down, slowly, and presses a kiss to the swell of Erin’s breast. There’s the softness of a sigh, and Erin’s hand touches Jillian’s neck, holding her there.  
  
Jillian’s been held down by that hand before, and she takes it. Eyes tightly closed and she leaves a little suck mark, just north of a nipple.  
  
There’s a kind of peace in this, kisses against tender skin and the noises Erin makes. It’s just a tease, Erin’s bra remains tightly pressed against skin; but Jillian does what she can with lips and tongue and teeth. “I like this,” Erin says. “It’s different.”  
  
“You’re different,” Jillian says without meaning to, without catching the words as they leave her mouth.  
  
Erin lets her go, her hands at her side. “I know. Is this okay?”  
  
The “no” wants to scream out of her, but she nods instead. “I want this.” Because it’s also true.  
  
“Then get inside me,” Erin whispers, quiet and sudden, and Jillian sees white.  
  
They fight clothes until skin meets bare skin and there are little kisses followed by lingering ones. Jillian wonders if there is absolution hidden in these kisses, forgiveness passed along in a warm embrace.  
  
But see: the taste of Erin is the same, and the cognitive dissonance just doesn’t go away.  
  
It’s not something she can turn off, images seared in her brain and the memory of being fucked to the point of exhaustion, and then fucked again.  
  
But this, this is different; this can be different. Same arms and fingers, same mouth and the heat between her legs. But categorically different.  
  
Jillian breathes in deeply and finds her courage.  
  
With the most tentative touch, Jillian brushes her fingers along Erin’s skin, and soon, lightly scratches lines along Erin’s thighs until she’s trembling. Her mouth closes over Erin’s nipple and sucks before she makes purchase with Erin’s heat, her fingers finding a swollen clit to touch. And it’s new, it’s so shockingly new, because the noises Erin makes are unlike what Zuul made with the same voice, same throat and lungs. She tosses her head a little and vibrates all over, and something twists in Jillian’s heart. Erin whispers the words “more” and “harder” and “yes” and her eyes are tightly shut. It’s a beautiful sight; a pretty girl quivering in her arms.  
  
But more than that: it’s Erin.  
  
When she comes, her eyes are open and her words are garbled and her skin is flushed. And right as Erin crests, Jillian presses up and in with even strokes. There are fingernails clawing into Jillian’s skin and Erin says, maybe for the first time, for real: “Jillian.”  
  
It trips Jillian up a little, her fingers hesitate before she can collect herself.  
  
She adjusts then, pushes in to get her mouth on the supple and wet skin between Erin’s legs. Jillian is nothing if not thorough. And she’s missed this, this specifically. What’s interesting, a data point unexpected, is that Zuul came so quickly with Jillian’s mouth, but Erin’s slow to come like this.  
  
So Jillian dawdles, enjoying it; loving how Erin’s fingers reach down to tangle in her hair and the soft little sounds she makes. It’s a while before she comes, but when she does, Jillian can sense the steady rhythm crashing over several long moments. She smiles against Erin’s skin, pleased.  
  
But: “I’ve never been fucked like this in my life,” Erin groans out and shakes again from the aftershocks. And Jillian is glad Erin can’t see her expression, glad she’s hidden from view.  
  
“I’d like to try—,” Erin starts, “I’d like to try.”  
  
There’s a voice in her head saying “no”, a tremor in her skin at having Erin touch her, but she pushes the thoughts away. Locks them up. And she holds onto something: Erin has wound her way around Jillian’s heart, such a tight weave that it brands her, marks her. And that's significant, that has meaning. So her breathing, once tight and quick, evens out.  
  
When they’re side by side, Jillian takes Erin’s hand and guides her down where she’s wet and ready. “It’s pretty easy,” she says, ghosting Erin’s fingers as she draws circles against her clit. “I’m pretty easy.”  
  
There’s a resolve in Erin’s focus, something made of steel in her eyes and the perfect rhythm of her fingers. She stares, almost without blinking, into Jillian’s eyes, and her cheeks flush bright pink. It’s so intimate, it’s so close, that Jillian relaxes for the first time, forgets the claw marks deep in her heart. It’s just Erin, just Erin looking at her in the most Erin way possible: quiet, steady, and true.  
  
Peace washes over her and all the noise in her head silences. It’s nice, so nice.    
  
So, when her orgasm hits, hard and sharp, she gasps in her surprise loudly, almost embarrassingly so, but she doesn’t take her eyes off Erin. Jillian watches her as she rides it out, and feels a salty wetness in her eyes.  
  
When it’s done, when it’s over, she wraps her arms around Erin, presses her face against Erin’s hair and breathes in as she squeezes tight. Fragrant and familiar scent in her nose. There are dark clouds in the sharper edges of her mind, but she wills this current calm to linger, to heal and restore.  
  
“Again?” Erin asks with the vaguest hesitation, and Jillian considers it before whispering: “yes, oh yes.”  
  
*  
“I'm starting work again on the prototype,” Jillian says. “It’s the back reactor that was the problem all this time. Who knew?”  
   
"You're going to blow us up, Holtz."  
   
"I might blow us all up."  
   
“Well,” Patty says, raising her drink. “Glad to have you back, both of you.”  
   
Jillian raises her glass because that’s what you do.  
   
And she smiles because she's happy, a strange and wondrous feeling, and because Erin’s hand is on hers, thumb making soft circles on her skin. She turns her head to stare at Erin’s profile in the dim bar light, and she feels quiet, she feels calm. This is, this is right. How it should be; how it should have been.  
   
“Love you,” she thinks, she doesn’t say, even though it’s a fact and it’s a lovely thing.

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely raygorartshit did some beautiful artwork for this fic, which can be found [here](http://raygorartshit.tumblr.com/post/151249140875/i-got-commissioned-to-draw-some-pieces-for-a). GORGEOUS WORK, I'm over the moon.


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